Lost in Time (17 page)

The sun finally set that evening, and they brought in their plates and empty bottles. After cleaning up, Ben said he wanted to work a little more, and Allegra joined him in his studio.

She curled up on the rickety couch covered in canvas and watched him paint. He was working on a more abstract series these days, and she knew it was good. He was going to be famous, and not only because of his family, but because of his talent. Ben turned around and cleaned his brushes into the turpentine.

“How do you feel about another portrait?” he said.

“Do you think it’s wise?” she teased, flirting a little.

“Might bring back old memories.”

“Precisely.” He grinned.

He was so beautiful, she thought, towheaded and tan, with his generous laugh. She loved the way he made her feel: light-headed, joyful. The way they were together: easy, laughing. She felt human with him. She did not think of the future or what was in store for them. She had walked away from all of that. Here, in the heart of the sleepy Napa valley, she was not Gabrielle the Uncorrupted, no vampire queen, but merely Allegra Van Alen, a former New York girl who had moved to the country to make wine.

She moved to the sheet on the platform and slowly peeled off her clothing. The overalls she unhooked and let fall to the ground, the old T-shirt that she wore on the days she worked in the fields and not in the store. She twisted her torso and asked, “Is this good?”

Ben nodded slowly.

Allegra held her pose. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. She could feel him watching her, memorizing every line, every curve of her body for his work.

There was no sound for the remainder of the hour but that of the quiet taps and soft strokes of a paintbrush on canvas.

“Good,” he said, meaning she could release the pose.

She wrapped herself in a robe and walked over to look at his painting. “Best one yet.”

Ben put away his brushes and pulled her onto his lap.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” she said, sinking into his arms. She traced the veins on his neck. Then sank her fangs deep into his skin and began to drink deeply.

Ben leaned back, and soon the robe fell away and they were together.

It was the happiest she had ever felt.

Allegra could almost convince herself that they would be able to live here together for the rest of their lives.

The Brides of Lucifer

Theyweredeepunderground,onapathbeneaththenecro-polis leading to a subterranean stairway. Schuyler stumbled on a rock and cut her ankle. It was hard to keep balance as the men alternately pulled and carried her to their destination.

Their attackers had blindfolded them after they’d fallen through the void, and while she knew they were in the underworld, she wasn’t sure how far down they had taken her. Were they through the gate already? Had her plan worked? But if they had breached the Gate of Promise, where was its keeper?

And what did they do now that Jack and the rest of the team had no idea where they had gone? Did they fight? Did they wait? Schuyler decided to wait. Finally the marching stopped, and her blindfold was removed. Schuyler looked around. She was in some sort of waiting room, and she did not see Deming or Dehua anywhere. She was alone with her captors, two swarthy men who looked at her appraisingly. The Red Blood by her side slobbered over her. “Our masters will reward us. You’re a pretty one.”

Schuyler’s stomach tightened, and she comforted herself with the knowledge that she had Gabrielle’s sword hidden in her robe. When the time was right, she would be able to fight her way out of here.

The door opened, and a female demon entered. Schuyler had never seen one before. Jack had told her about the different creatures of the underworld, of the demons that lived in Helheim, who’d been made from the darkness and breathed the Black Fire.

“What did you bring in?” she asked. “We got twins in the other room. Nice one. Lads will like that. What’ve we got here?”

Schuyler’s attackers pushed her forward. “Worth the top bride price, this one is.”

“Take off your
hijab
,” the demon barked. “I want to see what we’re buying. Go on, now.”

Schuyler slipped the garment over her head, pocketing Gabrielle’s sword, which had collapsed into a small knife in her fist. She stood in her slip and crossed her arms before her chest.

The demon leaned forward and sniffed her. “What have you got in your hand, missy?”

Before Schuyler could react, the demon’s hand clamped down on her wrist and squeezed tightly.

Schuyler’s knees buckled from the pain, and she had no choice but to open her hand and give up her weapon.

The demon picked it up, and the knife transformed into a long gleaming saber. “Just as I thought. This is a sword of the Fallen. Have Baal take a look at it. And warn the others—they might be just like her.” She put her meaty hands on her thighs and smiled. “Thanks, boys, you did well. The bosses will find some angels in their beds tonight.” She smiled. “Go on now, out with you. The trolls will pay you at the till.”

The men shuffled out, and the demon studied Schuyler.

“This is an interesting proposition. You’re not exactly what we asked for, but I think we’ll find someone who’ll like you just the way you are.” She left the room, banging the door behind her.

Once Schuyler was alone, she paced the entire length of it, trying to find an exit, as the door was locked with an invisible spell and the walls were made of solid rock. She tried everything, but no incantation even moved the rock an inch.

She tried to quell the panic that threatened to wash over her, and forced herself to think. She’d lost her sword, but surely she could find something else to defend herself with before it was too late. Yet before she could form even the bare bones of an escape plan, the demon returned, and this time she was not alone.

It was a Croatan, a silver-haired angel—beautiful but with hard, flat crimson eyes, and scars on his face that marked him as one of Lucifer’s own. The Corrupted leered at her, and Schuyler could smell its lust as a physical assault, as he sent her images that she could not escape from. She could not close her eyes, as the thoughts had penetrated her mind, and she saw exactly what was in store for her if she did not get away.

She felt her courage begin to wane. She was trapped here—disarmed, vulnerable—but she raised her chin and her eyes flashed with rage. She would fight with every ounce of her body and soul.

“She’ll do,” the Croatan said. His voice was low and melodious but frosted with malice. “Get her ready.” He held her by the chin with his hand. “The boys were right. You are a pretty one. But I’m not paying the bride price for her. The Fallen won’t be able to bear me the children I need.”

“But look at that hair, those eyes—she’s the spitting image of Gabrielle,” the demon protested. “Surely—”

“No negotiation. You’re lucky I’m taking her off your hands,” he said, and stroked Schuyler’s cheek one last time before leaving.

“Well, you heard the fool. Let’s go,” the demon grumbled.

“Come on, let’s get you to zani’s house.”

“Zani?” Schuyler asked. “You mean the priestess of the temple of Anubis?” She felt her heart beat faster at the prospect of finding the woman who might be Catherine of Siena.

“What are you talking about, child?” The demon clucked her tongue. “Down here, the zaniyat Babel is what we call a cathouse. The Whores of Babylon. Lucifer’s brides. ’Course, not everyone gets chosen by the Dark Prince. You’ll be wed to Danel, for instance. Lucky you, he’s quite the looker, don’t you think?”

Schuyler swallowed her shock to digest the information.

“Zani” was no priestess. It was a code word for this operation—taking human brides for demons.

No. The zaniyat Babel was no holy woman. She would not find Catherine of Siena here. “Zaniyat” was an ancient name, all right. There had been many names for the women who had been taken by the Croatan over the centuries: Deming had told her the Nephilim had called his mother “The mistress.”

Satan’s mistresses. Whores of Babylon. It was all the same.

The mistress of Florence must have been the first to birth a human-demon hybrid, but since then, there had been many to take her place, and now Schuyler would be one of them.

The demon led her down another underground passageway, and when they emerged out of it they were standing in the middle of a small-town bazaar, ringed by dusty buildings that did not look very different from the marketplaces of Cairo. Schuyler’s captor rapped on the door of one of the buildings, and after a few minutes they were ushered inside.

A group of scantily clad heavily made-up human matrons greeted them in the entryway. Schuyler thought the presence of the Red Bloods meant that they must be in Limbo, the first circle of Hell, just beyond the living glom. Humans could not survive too long much deeper in the underworld.

“Danel wants her ready for the bonding in a few hours,”

the demon told them. “And he doesn’t want her drugged.”

The matrons nodded, and two of them led Schuyler to a small boudoir with a dressing room. They pushed her down on the cushioned stool in front of a vanity mirror.

“Let’s see what we got here,” the fatter, older, and darker lady said, jangling her gold bracelets.

“Too thin,” her companion said. “We’ll have to use the cutlets.”

“Danel always picks the young ones.”

Schuyler sat on the stool and glared at them. “Let me go,”

she ordered, but either the powers of compulsion were dif-fused in the underworld, or the humans had learned how to protect their minds from it. It was useless. The ladies merely laughed.

She couldn’t believe how casual they were about what they were doing. “You give your daughters to these demons,”

she said to them. “You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

The Red Blood madam slapped her across the face.

“Speak to me like that again and you will lose your tongue.”

“Stop!” her companion warned. “You’re going to give her a fat lip. The boss doesn’t like it when they’re beaten up. Remember, we’ve got to make her look pretty.”

River Palace

The Duke’s Arms turned out not to be a hotel.

Instead it was a palace, a veritable castle in the sky, a lavish fourplex penthouse in a grand skyscraper located at the far edge of town near the river Styx. The building was gaudy and gilded and frightfully ugly and tacky, with soaring pink columns, golden cherubim, leering gargoyles, decorated in nouveau riche flamboyance, Mimi thought. A real expensive eyesore. She didn’t think it was Kingsley’s fault: the place probably always looked like this no matter who was installed as consigliere. She noticed it was in a better part of town, though; the air along the river wasn’t as gray or smoggy.

The doorman told them they were expected, and ushered them into the elevator.

When the doors opened, Mimi and Oliver found themselves standing in the foyer of a magnificent apartment with a curved, three-story staircase. A group of troll servants dressed in uniform stood in a row: butlers and footmen in livery, the maids and cooks in black dresses with starched aprons. All of them were wearing silver chokers with the sigil of the house engraved on the front.

“Welcome,” the head butler said. “We have been expecting you, Lady Azrael.”

Mimi gave him a queenly nod.

Now, this was more like it, Oliver thought.

“Shall you require supper, or shall I show you to your rooms?”

Mimi raised an eyebrow to her traveling companion. Oliver yawned. “I’m starved, but I think I’d rather sleep first.”

“Our rooms, then.”

“This way, please,” a maid said, curtsying. They followed her down the hallway to another elevator, which brought them to a suite of rooms facing the river’s eastern shore.

“This is where Helda stays when she visits,” the maid whispered as she opened the double doors to a luxurious room with a grand view of the river. Mimi nodded. Kingsley meant it as an honor, surely, and while she was grateful to be so well taken care of, she was also just a little disappointed that he had left her side so quickly. She would have appreciated a shack alone with him rather than all these froufrou accoutre-ments. She said good night to Oliver and prepared for bed.

Oliver turned in as well. His bedroom suite was lavish and well appointed, but as he expected, the pillows were too soft, the bed too big, the air-conditioning turned up too high.

Still, he didn’t complain. He was just glad to have a place to rest at last, even if it was in an ersatz Trump Tower with a creepy troglodyte domestic staff. When his head hit the pillow, he didn’t care that it was too soft; he slept immediately, like the dead, never moving from one spot.

For her part, Mimi sat up in bed for hours. She had found a selection of silk, sheer nightgowns in the walk-in closet, and after a long soak in the marble tub, she had changed into the sexiest one, slipped under the covers, and waited. Finally, after what seemed like hours, she could hear the elevator doors open—and recognized Kingsley’s rolling step. She waited for him to sneak into her room and have his way with her.

She would tell him to stop, of course, and demand that he explain his feelings for her before they went any further. But afterward, after he pledged his devotion and begged for forgiveness for that casual, ambivalent greeting at the club, she would let him do whatever he wanted—and she had to admit she could not wait to be ravished. She squirmed with anticipa-tion, remembering the way they had danced together—the feel of his strong arms circling her waist, and the way his body had moved with hers—and she arranged herself on the pillows to look as sleepy and innocent as possible.

But the steps grew farther away instead of getting closer, and then there was silence. Mimi cocked an eye open in annoyance. She fluffed her hair and the pillows again, made sure her nightgown fell on her body in an attractive, sultry angle, and resumed her position. maybe this was part of the game?

Teasing her again? But the minutes ticked by and still there was nothing. Mimi practically slept with one eye open the entire evening, but Kingsley did not visit her bedroom. Not that first night, and not for the nights after. In fact, she did not see him at all for the next couple of days.